


swept away, i'm stolen

by deadpools (midnights)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Kissing, Love Bites, Missionary Position, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Showers, Sleepy Cuddles, Smut, Snogging, So much kissing, Some Plot, Unsafe Sex, more fluff than usual i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:38:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnights/pseuds/deadpools
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon’s not sure which one of them moves first, but then all of a sudden they’re kissing, lips moving together furiously. It’s rough, filled with noses bumping together and lips pulled between teeth and tongues licking into each other’s mouths. His hands fall from the lapels of Illya’s jacket to his hips, pushing him further up against the wall. Illya’s hands go to his waist, grabbing him roughly and pulling him closer. </p><p> It's a miracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	swept away, i'm stolen

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work for this fandom, and I have no excuse for it, honestly. I'm very excited about it though! 
> 
> For anyone subscribed to me for the 1D fandom, don't worry! I'm still writing that as well. 
> 
> The title is from Adele's 'Skyfall', the opening song from the Bond movie of the same name. I'm not really satisfied with the title, but nothing else caught my eye and I'd listened to one song from the soundtrack about a billion times while writing this, so I figured I should pick something from there. 
> 
> Um, there's unsafe sex in this which is not smart so don't do it unless you've both been checked out and everything, you know how it goes. Stay safe, kids.
> 
> I don't own any of the characters in this, everything belongs to the creators.
> 
> If you want to, follow me on my [marvel blog](http://rcgersromanoff.tumblr.com/) (which occasionally has stuff from this fandom on there), or on my [1D blog](http://harryindallas.tumblr.com/)!

“You are very frustrating, Cowboy.”

Napoleon sits back on his heels, leans against the wall of the garage and admires his work. “Well he’s taken care of, isn’t he?”

“Could have been taken care of much easier.” Illya mumbles. “Let’s go. Car is waiting.”

Heaving a sigh, Napoleon stands, massaging his sore shoulder as he follows Illya out of the messy garage and into the black car that is indeed waiting for them. Once they get back to their suites in the hotel, Napoleon pours himself a glass of scotch and runs the shower. He sheds his now-tattered shirt and tie (his jacket was lost somewhere during the mission), and then toes off his shoes and tugs off his pants and briefs, then steps into the shower.

He’s still tying the belt on the bathrobe when he nudges the door open with his bare foot, and finds Illya lounging on one of the couches with his feet on the coffee table. There’s a glass of vodka in his hand, and he’s reading a newspaper, but when he hears Napoleon, he folds it over and tosses it on the table. He’s still wearing that suede bomber jacket, but his silly hat is gone. He looks up at Napoleon and raises an eyebrow.

“What?” Illya asks, almost boredly.

Napoleon just shakes his head innocently, refilling his scotch and then sitting across from Illya in an armchair. “Any reason why you’re in my hotel room at half-past midnight, or were you just seeking my wonderful companionship?”

“Do not flatter yourself.” Illya rolls his eyes, “I am here simply because my room did not have vodka.” He waves his glass around a bit.

“How rude of them. So you broke in here to drink all of mine?” Napoleon raises an eyebrow.

“Again with the flattering. No. I broke in here to _share_ all of yours.” Illya explains. “See? I am being kind with this sharing.”

Narrowing his eyes, Napoleon leans forward. “And why are we getting drunk?”

“Gaby and I had a bet on when the next time you make stupid decision would be. I lose. Now I owe her.” He says. “And I would rather drink than call her and admit my mistake. You see?”

“Mhm.” Napoleon nods. “And what, exactly, was my stupid decision?”

“Besides every one you’ve made in last ten years?” Illya asks, smirking at his own joke. Napoleon doesn’t think it’s very funny. Rolling his eyes again, Illya pulls his feet off the table, leans forward, and puts his drink down. “You threw yourself in front of bullet during the mission. Not smart. You could have died.”

“It wasn’t _loaded_.” Napoleon protests.

“And how did you know this? Do tell.” Illya snaps.

Napoleon groans. “I _saw_!”

“No. You _guessed_.” Illya says with shake of his head. “Admit it.”

“It was not a _guess_ , you insufferable asshole.” He insists, letting his empty scotch glass hit the table with a clonk. “It was an educated… assessment.”

“And how is this any different from a guess?” Illya asks, standing. He walks over to the little bar to refill his glass, even though he hasn’t had any since Napoleon got out of the shower.

“Why does it _matter_?” Napoleon groans dramatically, grabbing his glass of scotch and tipping his head back to drain the rest of it. He follows Illya to the bar and deposits his glass next to Illya’s.

Illya doesn’t say anything for a moment, just glances at Napoleon with a very bored expression and then returns his attention to the vodka. “It _matters_ because you are going to get yourself killed.”

“You think I don’t know the risks of this job? That what you’re saying, Peril? Hm?” He snaps.

Illya rolls his eyes again, looking more uninterested by the second. “No. Not what I am saying.”

Gritting his teeth, Napoleon grabs the glass of Vodka from Napoleon’s hands and slams it back on the wood. It sloshes on his hand and onto the floor. “Then please, pal, enlighten me.”

“Of course. _Pal_.” Illya says, wiping his vodka-covered hand on his pants. He gives Napoleon a sugar-coated smile. “You lack the common sense to protect yourself. Going to get you killed. That’s all. Simple, no?”

Finally at his wit’s end, Napoleon grabs Illya by the lapels of his stupid jacket and pushes him until his back hits the wall. Illya's got a good four inches on him, so he has to stand on his toes to be level with him. Raising an eyebrow, Illya blinks slowly, like he's bored. It's making Napoleon a little annoyed. He's not _that_ uninteresting. He tightens his grip on the jacket and shoves him back again, and this time his head smacks the wall. The sharp movement makes his shoulder hurt again.

Illya blinks again, letting a breath out through his nose. "Very frustrating indeed, Cowboy."

Napoleon rolls his eyes. "Because you're such a _calming_ partner to have, right, pal?"

"Well, at least I am not throwing myself in front of loaded guns every day." Illya says. "And do not call me pal. Strange nickname."

Groaning, Napoleon lets go of his jacket but doesn't step back. "It wasn't _loaded_ , Illya."

"And if it was? What then? You are dead and we are no closer to figuring out who's supplying this money." Illya snaps.

"He wasn't a good shot, it would've hit my stomach or something. It would've gone just as well as it did." He says stubbornly.

Illya rolls his eyes again. " _Da_ , with me lugging you around on my shoulder and shooting people while you bleed on my nice jacket."

"That is not a nice jacket." Napoleon snorts.

"And that is not what we are discussing." Illya says. "You have been foolish. Not careful enough. Like you have death wish."

"What, so you're _worried_ about me?"

"You are a big fan of flattering yourself." Illya laughs at him. "Don't be so stupid."

Once again angry, Napoleon grabs his jacket and pushes him up against the wall again. Illya looks at him through narrowed eyes, his eyelashes almost touching his cheekbones. The scar beside his eye appears to lengthen as he raises an eyebrow again.

Their faces are close enough now that Napoleon can almost feel the heat of his skin. The smell of his cologne is almost intoxicating. Napoleon’s suddenly extremely aware of everything around him, from the spilled vodka to the record playing in the background to the drapes blowing gently in the wind.

Illya stares at him with those piercing blue eyes, his face not betraying a single thing he’s thinking. Napoleon hopes his face isn’t showing what he’s thinking either, but it’s not likely to be the case. He just hopes he’s not blushing. Illya would never let him live that down.

Napoleon’s not sure which one of them moves first, but then all of a sudden they’re kissing, lips moving together furiously. It’s rough, filled with noses bumping together and lips pulled between teeth and tongues licking into each other’s mouths. His hands fall from the lapels of Illya’s jacket to his hips, pushing him further up against the wall. Illya’s hands go to his waist, grabbing him roughly and pulling him closer.

It's a miracle.

The way Illya kisses is a lot like how he works: it’s practiced and perfected, but not without a certain sense of style. He kisses with that intensity that Napoleon has come to know well. His hands are holding his waist tight enough that it almost hurts, but his tongue slides against Napoleon’s gently. One of his big hands works its way up to the back of Napoleon’s neck, fingers tugging at his hair just the tiniest bit.

And then Illya pulls at his hair harder, tugging Napoleon’s head back and breaking the kiss to breathe. He keeps tugging, though, until all of Napoleon’s neck is bared. It’s all Napoleon can do not to groan when Illya’s lips meet his throat, pressing gentle, sucking kisses to the warm skin, and probably leaving little red marks as he goes. Soon he’s taking skin between his teeth, alternating between biting and sucking and most likely leaving one of the most obvious hickeys Napoleon’s ever been given (the kind that’s too high to be hidden under a shirt collar).

Illya kisses his way up to Napoleon’s jaw, then loosens his grip on his hair and kisses his lips again. When they separate, Napoleon opens his eyes, already panting a bit from arousal. Illya is looking down at him, blue eyes almost swallowed up by his pupils, which are blown wide with lust. His lips are red from kissing, shirt and jacket rumpled from Napoleon pushing him around.

“You are sure about this, Cowboy?” He murmurs. His voice is low and rough, and it goes straight to Napoleon’s groin.

Napoleon nods. “I am if you are.”

Illya nods. So he kisses Illya again, kisses him hard enough to bruise. Without separating, Napoleon reaches for Illya’s jacket again, tries to tug it off before realizing that the point is moot. Illya’s hands leave his waist (Napoleon’s sad to see them go) and go to his jacket, undoing the zipper and pulling it off with ease. At this point, Napoleon would go for Illya’s neck to return the favor of the hickey, but Illya’s still got on that silly turtleneck.

It makes Napoleon smile, and he leans forward to kiss Illya again before getting to work on getting it off. He grabs for the bottom of Illya’s sweater, tugging it out from where it’s tucked into his pants and pulling it over his head. Illya complies, raising his arms to help quicken the disrobing process. The sweater is tossed onto the floor somewhere, and Illya is left with disheveled hair and a gorgeously bare chest.

Napoleon allows himself to admire Illya’s slender frame, his big arms and the taut lines of his chest and abdomen. Leaning forward again, Napoleon sinks his teeth into Illya’s neck, and laughs a bit when Illya smacks his head against the wall while trying to lean it back. He sucks and licks at that same spot until it’s all purple and red, then presses a kiss to it and moves back to Illya’s waiting lips.

Illya’s hands go to the belt of his bathrobe, fingers deftly untying the knot. Napoleon tugs it off, glad he’d pulled on his silk boxers before leaving the bathroom, because otherwise he’d be completely naked and Illya would be heartbreakingly clothed. Tossing the bathrobe to the side, Napoleon presses their bare chests together, grabbing for Illya’s bare hips and pulling him close.

Unsurprisingly, Napoleon is the first one to make a sound, letting out a groan into Illya’s mouth when he rolls his hips and rubs their clothed cocks against each other. Illya’s big hands tangle in Napoleon’s hair, and Napoleon can only imagine what a mess he is right now: flushed cheeks, red lips, messy hair, hickeys all over his neck. A very uncharacteristic but not unfamiliar mess.

The next time they separate to breathe, Napoleon grabs for Illya’s belt, fingers nimbly undoing the buckle, and then the button of his pants. Illya toes off his shoes and kicks them to the side, his hands departing from Napoleon’s hair to tug off his socks and toss them away. Just before he goes to pull his pants down, Napoleon looks up at Illya for confirmation. Illya nods and motions for him to get on with it.

After dropping swiftly to his knees, Napoleon helps Illya step out of his pants. He throws them to the side, hands working over Illya’s slender hips. Illya’s cock is tenting in his boxers, but Napoleon decides he can wait a little longer. Attaching his lips to Illya’s left hip, Napoleon sucks a dark hickey into his pale skin. A hand works its way into Napoleon’s hair, and he finally gets a groan out of Illya when he sinks his teeth into his hip.

Satisfied with the mark he’s left behind, Napoleon grabs for the waistband of Illya’s boxers and pulls them down, tosses them away once he’s stepped out of them. Illya’s cock springs forth, big and hard, and Napoleon can’t wait to get his mouth on it. So he does, using one hand to hold the base and the other to hold Illya’s hip. Illya groans again, and Napoleon hears his head hit the wall a third time. He’s probably going to get a headache if it keeps going on.

Using his hands to work up and down on what his mouth can’t cover, Napoleon swirls his tongue around the head of Illya’s cock. When his hips start to chase the movements of Napoleon’s tongue, Napoleon grabs Illya’s hips and pushes him back to keep him from moving. Illya complies, letting out another groan as Napoleon continues.

Looking up, Napoleon maintains eye contact with Illya as he takes his cock all the way into his mouth. Then he hollows out his cheeks, tightening his grip on Illya’s hips before he starts to bob his head up and down on his cock. Illya’s fingers tighten in his hair, and Napoleon lets out a moan around his cock. The vibrations from his voice make Illya groan again, and he hears him swear as his head bumps the wall. It makes Napoleon want to laugh.

Napoleon pulls off, letting go of Illya’s hips to take his cock in one hand and rub his thumb over the head. He works his hand up and down Illya’s cock while he catches his breath, one hand still gently holding his hip. Once he’s ready to go again, Napoleon takes his dick back into his mouth, his one hand still rubbing over the base of it. Illya lets out a strangled moan, his hand going back to tangle in Napoleon’s hair.

Illya’s hips start to move again, but this time Napoleon doesn’t mind. Closing his eyes, Napoleon lets Illya guide the movements of his head with the hand in his hair, the movements of his hips getting harder with every thrust. Illya keeps going, snapping his hips forward again and again, and then suddenly he’s pulling Napoleon off of his cock, breathing sharply. Napoleon looks up at him with a smirk.

“Easy there,” Napoleon says, and wow. His voice is wrecked, all rough and raspy. “I’m betting you wouldn’t want to, ah, _finish_ too early. Right?”

Illya frowns at him, unwilling to admit that he’s right. Eventually he nods, and Napoleon’s smirk turns into a grin. Before he sinks back down on Illya’s cock again, Napoleon leans forward and presses a kiss to his bruised hip. When he glances up at him, Napoleon sees that Illya is holding back a small smile. Making him smile feels like a small victory, and it’s very satisfying.

So Napoleon goes all the way down this time, and doesn’t stop until his nose brushes up against Illya’s groin. Willing his gag reflex to subside, Napoleon breathes heavily through his nose. He swallows around Illya’s cock a few times, pleased to hear the filthy Russian curses being gasped out above him. When his eyes start to water, Napoleon grabs for Illya’s hip with one hand, holding on tight. Eyebrows knitted together in concentration, Napoleon swallows around his cock a few more times before pulling off.

And then Illya’s grabbing Napoleon’s hands and hauling him to his feet, pulling him in by his waist to plant another kiss on his reddened lips. Napoleon, though out of breath, kisses back fiercely, his hands trapped awkwardly between their bare chests. Now he’s the one who’s overdressed, standing there in his boxers while Illya’s completely naked for all to see. Suddenly he’s very glad he’d decided to finger himself a bit in the shower- it would pose a problem if Illya wanted to fuck him and he wasn’t clean.

Illya’s lips begin to kiss down his neck again, and Napoleon twines his fingers in his hair and murmurs, “If we’re going to do this, Peril, perhaps we should do it on the bed.”

All of a sudden Illya’s big hands are on the backs of his thighs, and he’s being lifted into the air. Once he’s got his arms looped around Illya’s neck, he begins to laugh; softly at first, and then louder at the absurdness of it all. A soft smile breaks over the Russian’s face, and he rolls his eyes at him in a way that almost seems… fond.

“Up we go.” Illya says, walking them towards the bed. “We will see if the Cowboy knows how to ride.”

That only makes Napoleon laugh more. “So you _do_ have a sense of humor. I was beginning to wonder if it skipped a generation or something.”

“Shush.” Illya snaps, but there’s a small smile on his face still.

When they reach the bed on the other side of the room, Illya lays him down gently on his back and then crawls on top of him. One of his thighs works its way between Napoleon’s, and Napoleon groans at the contact before being quieted by another kiss. Hands begin to tug Napoleon’s boxers off, and he complies, watching as they go sailing across the room after Illya throws them.

With a parting peck on the lips, Illya stands. “One second.”

“Where are you going?” Napoleon whines, watching as he makes his way into the bathroom.

“Patience!” Illya calls.

“Wearing thin,” He warns.

He hears a few cabinets opening and closing, and then hears footsteps approaching. Illya returns, waving something around in his hand. As he gets closer, Napoleon’s able to make out that it’s a bottle of baby oil. _Oh_. Impressed with Illya’s planning ahead, he pulls him in for a kiss as soon as he climbs back onto the bed. For a few minutes, the bottle of oil lays forgotten on the duvet as they kiss and kiss.

Then Illya sits back on his heels, and Napoleon chuckles as he searches for the bottle on the bed. When he finds it, he looks at Napoleon with his eyebrows raised in a question. “You’re clean, I am hoping?”

“Of course.” Napoleon nods. “Took care of it in the shower.”

“Planning ahead?” Illya asks, clearly amused.

“Actually it was more of a relief sort of thing. Have to relax _somehow_ after missions.” He explains.

Illya nods in understanding, and then uncaps the bottle. Resting his head on his hands, Napoleon spreads his legs, eager for the familiar burn and stretch that he’s come to take immeasurable pleasure in. When one of Illya’s fingers begins to prod at the entrance to his hole, Napoleon gives a little shiver. Illya’s finger slips inside, just up to the first knuckle, and Napoleon lets a moan escape through his lips.

Napoleon shudders again when a cold hand comes to rest on his waist, and he grins at the apology that Illya murmurs. Something about “Russian blood”. Illya’s finger pushes all the way in, and one of Napoleon’s hands leaves his head to grab a handful of the duvet. Apparently Illya isn’t for wasting any time, because once it’s all the way in, he begins pushing his finger in and out, barely giving Napoleon any time to adjust to the feeling.

When Napoleon’s hips begin to chase Illya’s finger, Illya’s free hand goes to steady him. “Come on now, Peril, gimme another one.” He says, his usual bravado replaced by an arousal so intense he feels almost drunk.

“You want to be able to walk tomorrow, no?” Illya raises an eyebrow, glancing up at him.

“Why don’t you let me worry about that, hm?” Napoleon purrs.

Illya rolls his eyes at him, and Napoleon is surprised to feel a second finger pushing in alongside the first one. Breath hitching a bit, Napoleon tightens his grip on the silk duvet and bites back a moan. With his other hand, Napoleon takes hold of his own cock and gives it a few strokes, moans and groans falling from his lips at the long-awaited contact. Illya watches him with those impossibly blue eyes, and Napoleon’s quite sure he’s never looked this handsome before: blond hair all mussed up and falling over his forehead; neck, chest, and hips decorated in wine-colored bruises; the hard muscles of his torso on display; blue eyes even darker than before.

And then Illya begins to twist and crook his fingers inside him, and Napoleon knows exactly what he’s looking for. And he finds it, his long fingers brushing up against that bundle of nerves that has Napoleon arching his back and squeezing his eyes shut, both hands fisting in the fabric of the comforter. When Napoleon opens his eyes again, Illya’s got a filthy smirk on his face, clearly pleased at the effect he has on him. Napoleon’s about to call him out on it, but then his fingers are pushing on that spot again, and the only thing coming out of his mouth is a long string of moans and curses.

A third finger is added alongside the other two, and Napoleon’s back arches again. It hurts his sore shoulder, and he brings a hand to it. Apparently he makes a face, because when he looks up, Illya has stopped moving and he’s looking at Napoleon with concern. “Have I hurt you?”

“No,” Napoleon shakes his head. “I hurt it during the mission, before you got there. He stepped on me.”

“And you are alright?” Illya asks, his thumb stroking over Napoleon’s side.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, let’s get on with it, shall we?” Napoleon presses impatiently.

A small smile appears on Illya’s face. “Patience, Cowboy.”

Slowly, Illya begins to move his fingers again, sliding them in and out. Napoleon feels the burn and stretch when he twists and scissors his fingers, and can’t stop the moans from leaving his mouth. Napoleon imagines he must look even more a mess than he did before. After what seems like a lifetime, Illya pulls his fingers out, deciding that Napoleon’s ready.

Napoleon watches as Illya pours some of the oil onto his hands and then slicks up his cock, looking down at him hungrily. When Illya positions himself over Napoleon so he can fuck him, Napoleon grabs his waist and pulls him in for a kiss, slamming their lips together roughly. Before they really get snogging, Illya pulls back.

“So now you wish to kiss? I thought you wanted to ‘get on with it’?” Illya asks, nosing down his neck.

Napoleon rolls his eyes, hands winding their way into Illya’s hair. “Shut up.”

Illya presses a kiss to the juncture of Napoleon’s neck and jaw before pushing himself up again. Napoleon’s eyes widen when Illya grabs his hips and pulls him closer to him, and he reaches up to grab one of the pillows and prop it under his head and shoulder. He sees Illya glance pointedly at his injured shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything, so Napoleon doesn’t question it.

When Napoleon feels the head of Illya’s cock against his hole, he lets his eyes slip shut, and when he pushes inside, he squeezes them shut tighter. It _hurts_ , by God, it hurts, but it’s so _good_ at the same time. It’s that all too familiar stretch and burn. Hands fisting in the duvet, Napoleon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as Illya pushes all the way inside.

And then Illya’s frame is draped over top of his, their torsos pressed up against each other. Napoleon opens his eyes. Illya’s forearms are braced on either side of his head, their faces just inches apart. Napoleon brings his hands up, up, up and into Illya’s hair, messing it up even further. Both of them groan when Illya begins to move his hips, and for the first time in a very long time, Napoleon’s not sure if he’s going to last very long.

Illya’s hips slam into his backside, and it’s all he can do not to shout loud enough for the entire hotel to hear. He tightens his hands in his hair, tugging at it just the tiniest bit. One of Illya’s hands works its way into Napoleon’s hair, and he pulls too, and it makes Napoleon moan again. Napoleon uses Illya’s hair to pull his face closer and capture his lips in a kiss.

The kiss is cut off, though, when Illya’s delicious cock all but disappears from Napoleon’s hole. He’s about to frown when Illya slides back inside slowly, and then another moan is slipping through his lips. Illya pulls almost all the way out again and then slams back in, and Napoleon is quite sure that he’s never been fucked this well by anyone in his entire life. It’s glorious. A string of moans begin to fall from his mouth, and he lets out another one every time Illya fucks into him.

The two of them work up a rhythm that has Napoleon seeing stars, and has Illya growling Russian curses above him. Napoleon can see a thin layer of sweat on Illya’s forehead and chest, and he knows he’s sweating too, he can feel it. It’s hot in the hotel room, impossibly hot, though Napoleon guesses it must be because of all the… _energy_ he’s exerting.

With Illya’s chest pressed up against his, Napoleon can feel his pulse, feel how his heart is almost jack-rabbiting above him. His heart is beating erratically as well, he can almost hear the blood rushing in his ears. The moans he’s heaving out are rough and raspy, his throat still raw from sucking Illya’s cock earlier. It’s going to be sore in the morning and Napoleon’s going to be hoarse, he’s sure of it.

Napoleon loops his arms under Illya’s, digs his blunt nails into his shoulder blades and holds on as Illya continues to fuck him roughly. When Illya’s hips begin snap into him faster, Napoleon’s hands slip down his back and to his ass, trying to pull him further inside. Following his instruction, Illya pushes all the way inside and grinds his hips against Napoleon’s ass. When Illya’s cock hits his prostate, Napoleon cries out, hands grabbing for Illya’s waist.

Napoleon kisses him again, kisses Illya hard enough that it almost hurts, bites at his lips and slides their tongues together and closes his eyes. His mouth probably tastes like toothpaste and cock, but Illya kisses him anyway, groaning into his mouth like it’s the best kiss he’s ever had. Reaching up to kiss Illya hurts Napoleon’s shoulder though, so he kisses him again and then flops back down on the pillow. Illya follows him, lips pressing sucking kisses to his neck and jaw, leaving hot little red marks that will probably disappear within the hour, hand still tugging gently at his hair.

When Illya starts fucking him again, he hits Napoleon’s prostate with every thrust, and after a while Napoleon grows silent, barely able to breathe due to the immense pleasure he’s getting from this. His mouth falls open in a silent moan, and Illya closes it with a quick kiss. Illya tugs at his hair again, his other hand tracing teasingly down Napoleon’s torso and wrapping around his cock.

Napoleon moans at that, and it only takes a few strokes until he feels that familiar heat beginning to pool in his stomach. He can tell that Illya’s close too, by the way the rhythm of his fucking has become erratic and desperate. Crossing his ankles together behind Illya’s back, Napoleon smooths his hands up Illya’s warm skin and brings them to rest at the back of his neck. Illya’s hand tightens in his hair, and another hungry kiss is pressed to Napoleon’s lips.

“Going to-” Napoleon starts to warn Illya that he’s going to come, but he cuts off when Illya’s cock drags against his prostate.

Illya understands all the same, nodding his head. “Me too-”

So Illya keeps fucking into Napoleon, each brutal thrust making his hips knock into Napoleon’s ass. Napoleon feels half-crazy with the desire to flip them over and ride Illya until he can’t feel his legs, but he’s already too spent to do it properly. _Next time_ , he thinks. Assuming there’ll _be_ a next time. Illya keeps stroking Napoleon’s cock, driving him mad with the urge to come.

Napoleon’s the one to finish first, calling out Illya’s name before he tenses up and spills between them. He drags his nails down Illya’s back again, hard enough to draw blood. Shockwaves of pleasure shoot through him like lightning, shattering every other feeling in his body. It’s like the earth has completely stopped on its axis, like time has slowed down and everything that isn’t Illya has faded into static and white noise.

When Napoleon’s cleared his head of the haziness that his orgasm left him with, he finds himself laying underneath Illya, his hands still locked at the nape of his neck, both of them still panting as they come down. There’s a layer of sweat on Napoleon’s forehead and chest, and he can feel it between their chests when Illya shifts to pull out. Smoothing his hands over the scratches he left on Illya’s back, Napoleon murmurs an apology into his neck.

“Sorry about those.” He says.

“Souvenirs.” Illya says into the pillow.

And then Illya begins to press soft kisses along Napoleon’s neck, not stopping until he reaches his lips. Napoleon’s hands go still on his back, and he closes his eyes and pushes his tongue against Illya’s. But then come starts dripping out of his hole, and he winces. “You know,” He says conversationally. “I think maybe we should shower.”

“I suppose.” Illya shrugs.

Napoleon gently pushes at Illya’s chest until he gets up, groaning lazily. When Napoleon stands up, Illya wraps his big hand around his wrist and leads him to the bathroom. After turning on the shower, Napoleon pulls Illya in by his waist, standing on his toes to kiss him again. Illya’s hands go to Napoleon’s waist as well, easing him up against the wall. The tiles on the wall are cold, and Napoleon shivers when his bare back touches them, but Illya is warm and hot against his chest.

When the bathroom begins to cloud with steam, the two of them step into the shower. Napoleon leans against the wall as the water runs down his chest and legs, looks up at Illya. Illya just blinks a few times, thumbs rubbing in circles over his waist. And then he stops abruptly and steps away, and Napoleon looks up, confused.

“Something wrong?” Napoleon asks.

Illya looks between them. “What is going on here, exactly?”

Napoleon cocks his head. “We’re showering.”

“Not what I mean.” Illya snaps.

“Oh, you mean…?” Napoleon raises an eyebrow, and Illya nods.

“This is crime in Russia. Serious crime. America does not like it either.” Illya says.

“What’s it to them?” Napoleon frowns. “We’re not in either of those places right now.”

After a moment or two of silence, Illya nods. “And you? I know you have been with many women, Cowboy.”

Napoleon shrugs. “I don’t see the point in picking people to love. I don’t think it works like that. I think it’s more… mercurial than picking just one kind of person to love.” He explains. “And what about you? I saw how you used to look at Gaby.”

“Sex is sex. Gender does not matter.” Illya shrugs as well. He steps towards Napoleon again, one hand going to his waist. “And this?” He gestures between them. “Another conquest?”

Napoleon hesitates, wants to convey his words in the right way. Looking up at Illya, he smiles at him. “I’d like to think of my partner as more than a conquest.”

Illya gives him a small smile, and Napoleon takes it as a victory. Surging forward, he attaches his lips to Illya’s, hands coming to rest at the nape of his neck. They spend quite a bit of time kissing, enough time that the hot water is starting to go warm by the time they’ve separated. So they wash up quickly, and then dry off and change into pajamas (Illya borrows Napoleon’s, but the pants are a bit too short and Napoleon makes fun of him for it; it earns him an elbow in the side).

They climb into the big bed, feeling like they’re almost dissolving into the smooth, silky sheets. Napoleon watches as Illya lays on his back with one hand under his head, the other hand beckoning for him to move over. So Napoleon scoots towards him, turning on his side and resting his head on his broad shoulder, arm draping across Illya’s waist. Illya’s skin is warm, and Napoleon welcomes the heat; the windows are open, and he’s just begun to feel the chill in the air.

Illya reaches over with his other hand and tips Napoleon’s chin up. Napoleon raises an eyebrow. “Something the matter?”

“You have brown in this eye, but majority is blue.” Illya says, tapping the left side of his head.

Napoleon blinks. “Oh, that. I don’t know why that is, actually. I’ve had it since I was born, I think.”

“Curious.” Illya squints at him. “And very pretty.”

Napoleon tilts his head up to kiss him, and then brings a hand up to trace over the scar just beside Illya’s eye. “What’s this from, anyway?”

“Long time ago.” Illya says. “Knife fight in Saint Petersburg. I was only seventeen.”

Napoleon nods. “Oh, so you’ve always been a dangerous pain in the ass, alright.”

“Go to bed, Cowboy.” Illya rolls his eyes at him, letting go of his chin so he can lay down again. “It has been long day.”

“Amazing. You’ve found something we can agree on.” Napoleon says.

He yawns, closing his eyes. Napoleon is tired, exhausted from sex and orgasms and the tremendous effort spent on the mission and eager to get to sleep after a day that’s lasted a lifetime. But curled up like this, with his head on Illya’s shoulder and Illya’s fingers carding through his hair, occasionally turning to press kisses to his forehead, Napoleon knows he would go through a thousand days as long as this one as long as he gets to end it like this.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, please give kudos or leave a comment! Us writers live off of feedback.


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